"Men were buying you beer."

"Well, they wanted to, but I'm not much of a drinker." Lips pursed, Rebecca stepped back to check the positioning. "Shane was awfully good-natured about it all. A lot of people get annoyed when you beat them at their own game."

"Excuse me." Regan held up a hand. "You beat Shane—that's Shane MacKade—at pool."

"Seven out of ten—I think. Do you know how to work this coffee maker?"

Leave the woman alone for a few days and look what she gets into, Regan thought. "She can't make coffee, but she can beat Shane at pool. The only person I've ever known to beat Shane is Rafe—and nobody beats Rafe."

"Bet I could." Smug, Rebecca flashed a grin. "I'm a natural. Charlie Dodd said so."

"Charlie Dodd?" Measuring out coffee, Regan laughed. "You hung out with Charlie Dodd and the boys at Duff's, playing pool? What in the world were you doing there?"

"Celebrating Miranda's birth. Anyway, since I won the bet, Shane has to help me with my project. He's not terribly happy about it. He has a definite block about anything supernatural."

Curiouser and curiouser, Regan mused. "One minor detail."

"Hmm?"

"What if you'd lost the bet?"

"I'd have necked with him in his truck."

Regan splashed the water she'd been pouring into the coffee maker all over the counter. "Good Lord, Rebecca, what has happened to you?"

A smile ghosting around her mouth, Rebecca looked dreamily out the window. "I might have enjoyed it."

"I've no doubt you would have." After blowing out a breath, Regan mopped up the spill and started again. "Honey, I don't want to interfere in your life, but Shane... He's very smooth with women—and he doesn't tend to take relationships seriously."

Rebecca caught herself dreaming, and stopped. "I know. Don't worry about me. I've been sheltered and secluded, but I'm not stupid." She leaned over to coo at the baby napping in his carrier. "I think I'm handling Shane very well, all in all. I may have an affair with him."

"You may have an affair with him," Regan repeated slowly. "Am I having some sort of out-of-body experience?''

"I hope you'll give me all the details, if you are."

Regan rubbed a hand over her face, told herself to be rational. But it was Rebecca, she thought, who was always rational. "You may have an affair, with Shane. That's Shane MacKade. My brother-in-law."

"Um-hmm..." Unable to resist, Rebecca skimmed a fingertip over Jason's soft, round cheek. "I'm still considering it. But he's very attractive, and, I'm sure, very skilled." The fingertip wasn't enough, so she bent to touch her lips lightly to the same lovely spot. "If I'm going to have an affair, it should be with someone I like, respect and have some affection for, don't you agree?"

"Well, yes, in the general scheme of things, but..."

Rebecca straightened and grinned. "And if he's gorgeous and clever in bed, so much the better. A terrific face and body aren't everything, of course, but they are a nice bonus. I'd theorize that the stronger the physical attraction, the better the sex."

The coffeepot was gurgling away before Regan found the words. "Rebecca, making love with a man isn't an experiment, or a science project."

"In a way it is." Then she laughed and crossed over to take Regan by the shoulders. There seemed to be no way to explain, even to Regan, what it was like to feel this way. Free and able and attractive. "Stop worrying about me, Mama. I'm all grown up now."

"Yes, obviously."

"I want to explore possibilities, Regan. I've done what I was told, what was expected of me, for so long. Forever. I need to do what I want." With a little sigh, she took a turn around the kitchen. "That's what this is all about. Why do you think I chose the paranormal as a hobby? A first-year psych student could figure it out. All of my life has been so abnormal, and at the same time so tediously normal. / was abnormal."

"That's not true." Regan's voice was sharp and annoyed, and made Rebecca smile.

"You always did stand up for me, even against myself. But it is true. It's not normal for a seven-year-old to do calculus, Regan, or to be able to discuss the political ramifications of the Crimean War with historians, in French. I'm not even sure what normal behavior is for a seven-year-old, except in theory, because I never was one."

Before Regan could speak, she shook her head and hurried on. "I was pushed into everything so young. You can't know what it's like to go to school year-round, year after year. Even when I was at home, there were tutors and projects, assignments, and before I knew it my whole life was study, work, lecture." She lifted her hands, let them fall. "Earn a degree, earn another, then go home alone."

"I didn't know you were so unhappy," Regan murmured.

"I've been miserable all my life." Rebecca closed her eyes. "Oh, that sounds so pathetic. It's not fair, I suppose. I've had tremendous advantages. Education, money, respect, opportunities. But advantages can trap you, Regan. Just as disadvantages can. It seems petty to complain about them, but I am. Now I'm doing something about it, finally." With a kind of triumph, she drew in a deep, greedy breath. "I'm doing something no one expects from me, something to give my stuffy, straight-arrow colleagues a marvelous chance to gossip. And something that fascinates me."

"I'm all for it." But Regan was worried as she opened cupboards for mugs. "I think it's wonderful that you've taken time for yourself, that you have an interest in something most people consider out of the ordinary."

Rebecca accepted the mug of coffee. "But?"

"But Shane doesn't come under the heading of Hobby. He's the sweetest man I know, but he could hurt you."

Rebecca mulled it over as she sipped. "It's a possibility. But even that would be an experience. I've never been close enough to a man to be hurt by one."

She moved over to the window to look out. She could see him, in the field, riding a tractor. Just as she'd imagined. No, it wasn't a tractor, she remembered. A baler. He'd be making hay.

"I love looking at him," she murmured.

"None of them are hard on the eyes," Regan commented as she joined Rebecca at the window. "And none of them are easy on the heart." She laid a hand on Rebecca's shoulder. "Just be careful."

But Rebecca felt she'd been careful too long already.

She couldn't even cook. Shane had never known anyone who was incapable of doing more at a stove than heating up a can of soup. And even that, for Rebecca, was a project of momentous proportions.

He didn't mind her being there. He'd talked himself into that. He liked her company, was certain he would eventually charm her into bed, but he hated her reasons for moving in.

Her equipment was everywhere—in the kitchen, the living room, in the guest room. He couldn't walk through his own house without facing a camera.

It baffled him that an obviously intelligent woman actually believed she was going to take videos of ghosts.

Still, there were some advantages. If he cooked, she cheerfully did the clearing-up. And it wasn't a hardship to come in from the fields or the barn and find her at the kitchen table, making her notes on her little laptop computer.

She claimed she felt most at home in the kitchen— though she didn't know a skillet from a saucepan—so she spent most of her time there.

He'd gotten through the first night, though it was true that he'd done a great deal of tossing and turning at the idea that she was just down the hall. And if he'd been gritty-eyed and cranky the next morning, he'd worked it off by the time he finished the milking and came in to cook breakfast.

And she came down for breakfast, he reflected. Though she didn't eat much—barely, in his opinion, enough to sustain life. But she drank coffee, shared the morning paper with him, asked questions. Lord, the woman was full of questions.

Still, it was pleasant to have company over the first meal of the day. Someone who looked good, smelled good, had something to say for herself. The problem was, he found himself thinking about how she had looked, had smelled, what she had said, when he went out to work.

He couldn't remember another woman hanging in his mind quite so long, or quite so strongly. That was something that could worry a man, if he let it.

Shane MacKade didn't like to worry. And he wasn't used to thinking about a woman who didn't seem to be giving him the same amount of attention.

It was simply a matter of adjustment—or so he told himself. She was a guest in his home now, and a man didn't take advantage of a guest. Which was why he wanted her out again as soon as possible—so that he could.

And if he just didn't think overmuch about how pretty she looked, tapping away at her keyboard, those little round glasses perched on her nose, the eyes behind them dark with concentration, her long, narrow feet crossed neatly at the ankles, he didn't suffer.

But, damn it, how was he supposed to not think about it?

When he banged a pot for the third time, Rebecca tipped down her glasses and peered at him over them. "Shane, I don't want you to feel that you have to cook for me."

"You're not going to do it," he muttered.

"I can dial the telephone. Why don't I order something and have it delivered?"

He turned then, his eyes bland. "You're not in New York now, sweetie. Nobody delivers out here."

"Oh." She let out a little sigh, took off her glasses. There was tension radiating from him. Then again, there was always something radiating from him. He was the most... alive, she decided... man she'd ever come across.

And right now he seemed terribly tense. Probably a cow problem. Sympathetic, she rose to go over and rub his shoulders. "You've had a rough one. It must be tiring working in the fields like that, hours on end, then dealing with the stock."